On the Threshold

I originally wrote this piece for a creative writing class, but it is definitely one of my better works as far as short narratives are concerned. I wrote it after my mission and it is loosely based on my last night at home before leaving for my mission. I wrote it from the perspective of all the changes that have occurred to me over these past few years, and I think it is very poetic in the ways that it describes those feelings that I had on my last night home. I call it "On the Threshold"

A cool breeze whispers through the long stalks of grain, the wheat sighs and waves under the light of the freshly risen moon, raising silent hymns up to the skies. Far off in the distance the great Teton Mountains look out over the valley where the patchwork farmland spreads out before them like some great quilt that seems to move and breathe. Tiny houses dot the landscape, equally bathed in the pale moonlight and each seems to glow in the divine radiance.

The evening stars look down with their sparkling countenances on one of those small homes, built on two stories and lined with trees that sway and dance with the gentle wind as it passes from oak to willow as one would exchange partners at a ball, sighing as the wind imparts one last caress before moving on. They waltz to a symphony played by a single cricket playing his soul to the world on his solitary violin. On the steps to this humble home sits a young man, about the age where innocence and maturity wage war to lay claim on every soul that enters such territory. His short brown hair moves as the wind quietly runs her fingers through his hair and down his face. His eyelids are closed in silent reverie as he takes in the earthy smell carried by the gentle breeze, a slight smile hints at his lips and he breathes steadily of the intoxicating perfume, basking in the simple and yet elegant beauty around him. A tentative peace settles over the uncertainty inside him that comes from just being alive, the gentle lover kisses his features softly and then departs, leaving him to his thoughts.

Slowly rising from his meditative position, the young man begins to walk softly across the grass, breathing steadily and looking into the jeweled sky. His thoughts guide him to look out over the familiar surroundings of the homestead, trying desperately to soak in every detail and permanently record everything before him. It would be a long time before he would see this place again, he knows this and is preparing for the worst. The door to the house opens and a motherly woman steps outside, her breathing comes in ragged gasps through a tube in her throat, her short hair is like the young man’s only curly instead of straight. Her plump figure shuffles out to meet her son, a worried expression on her loving face. She covers the tube in her throat in order to speak in a raspy voice.

“Can’t get any sleep, I take it?”

“Nope, Dad’s snoring kept waking me up, besides, my nerves are shot anyways,” the young man smiles as he responds.

“What’s going through your head?”

“Nothing, I’m just nervous is all. Two years is a long time.”

“Not too long, it will go faster than you think.”

“So they say anyways, I don’t know as I believe them. But we’ll definitely see for sure. Anyways, what are you doing up this late?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’m fine, go ahead and go back inside, I’ll come in just a few minutes, I just want to sit and think for a bit.” The young man smiles as reassuringly as he can, his mother had a worried look on her face but she quietly nods and turns to shuffle back towards the house.

What the young man didn’t mention to his mother, what he doesn’t really need to tell her, was how his insides are churning right now. He is leaving the next day and would not be returning for two years. That is the reason he can’t sleep, he sits on the threshold of a whole new world that he has never known. That is the reason that he looks around trying to memorize his surroundings, the feeling of the cool night air, the smell of the growing wheat and the earthy scent of the wind coming in across the fields. Where he is going such things will only be fond memories of the past, the harsh realities won’t offer any such comforts. Tomorrow he leaves for Mexico City, one of the biggest cities on earth, to him this is the other side of the world and across several galaxies. Glancing back at the small home where he has lived his whole life he sighs and starts walking towards the door to try and sleep away the few remaining hours before his journey begins. He lies down in the cold comfort of his familiar bed, and then the war begins in earnest.

His fears and doubts as to what he is leaving behind simmer behind his poorly composed mask that barely contains his emotions. He asks himself what will become of his home? His mother? All these things and more press in on him, threatening to overwhelm him. He knows that change is just around the corner, hiding behind the first beams of morning’s sunlight, something unknown whispers in the shadows of the star-lit evening telling him that nothing will be the same. Telling him that his life is about to change drastically and that it will never return to the normal state he has become accustomed to. He brushes such things away from his mind, pushing them into the dark recesses of his consciousness trying ever so hard to ignore them, but they break free and again begin to torment him as he lays in his bed struggling in vain to catch the elusive bliss of sleep.

Little does he know that the voices are correct, those murmurings speak truth far greater than even they are aware. The whispers grow in ferocity and intensity as the night progresses, gradually growing to shouting, and finally a dull roar that fills every corner with a deafening silence that can only be heard within one’s head. A steady rhythm chanting “change, change, change, change, change, change!”

His blankets seek to drown him as he struggles into his bed, wrapping themselves around him, smothering him. He can’t breathe. He can’t focus. His eyes dart back and forth searching for the source of his assailants and tormentors. Closing his eyes he lays back and can see them that speak to him, telling him of the horrors that await him, a group of ugly men with bulbous noses and large lips. Yet, behind the loud-mouthed crowd inside his head sits a single person, calmly watching the progression. He is clothed in white and looks steadfastly at the young man, his confident gaze reassuring him. Somehow he isn’t surprised to be looking at himself.

The young man is forced to make a decision, to continue on this path chosen for him by his faith and his desire to do that which is right, or to stay safely concealed in the security of the known and comfortable and throw his responsibilities to the wind. Thus the war wages throughout the whole night, the loud horde screaming for attention, and the white clad figure demanding it.

Then, with startling speed, the darkness flies and the first rays of morning stab through the accusing mob and dispelling the awful gloom brought on by their fierce tirade. The dark night is over, the battle is won, and our hero emerges from his room, the purifying fire of the previous night’s ordeal burning brightly behind his eyes. He dresses for the day, knowing that it will be a difficult one. He opens the door to his house and receives one final caress from the gentle wind, and then takes one last look at his surroundings, knowing that it is the last time he will look on them the way he does now. Setting his jaw resolutely he takes a step forward, crossing over the threshold of the doorway.

Home At Last

Here's another writing, and yes it does involve my mom, but you'll have to forgive me as it is one of the more pivotal events in my life and I have written quite a bit on it. But I think that this writing takes a different approach to the matter, I called it "Home At Last"

Have you ever wondered what kind of reception angels receive in heaven when they finally get to come home? I imagine that it’s a lot like someone coming home from a long trip, with lots of happy tears and warm hugs, there’s probably some balloons in the background and a few songs sung as the triumphant returning one enters through the swirling veil of this world and is greeted by familiar faces beaming at them. I’ve had cause to think about this scene a lot because I’ve known a couple angels in my time, all sorts of them actually. Some of them didn’t realize that they were angels, some did and were all the more radiant because of that knowledge, while still others were only partially aware of the divinity within them.
The first time I recognized the angels that are amongst us, I was actually very far away from the angel. I remember as I stared at the pale glass of the computer monitor as I read the words that seemed to strike me in the face. It was early July, and I was sitting in a small Internet café in one of the scummier parts of Mexico City with a sweltering heat beating down on us through the glass doors that opened up into a dirty street. I sat there in an uncomfortable chair in front of an aging computer and read the correspondence that I had received from my family.
I learned that day that a giant had fallen; a struggle with an old enemy had finally taken its toll and had carried him away. My uncle Don had passed away the previous week, having lost the fight against thyroid cancer and finally succumbing to the effects of the disease. It was at this moment that I first knew an angel had been summoned home. It took the knowledge of his death to make me realize this. It’s interesting to me that for some people, it requires a heavy shock to their system in order for them to begin seeing angels, for others it comes naturally and they can see them anywhere. Still for other people they just ignore the presence of angels in their lives, and when something frightening or difficult occurs they tend only to recognize the devils. At this moment, and from then on, I saw angels.
Another celestial creature that I have happened upon in my sojourns in life is my niece, a wide-eyed, loving creature that has yet to form complete sentences. What she cannot convey in words she more than makes up for in affection and simple brightness, her gaze carries with it such a look of absolute innocence and complete trust that it could melt the hardest of hearts. Her blue eyes and smiling mouth, mixed with her light, sun-kissed hair that seems to glow with the rest of her countenance, brings happiness wherever she is. She is the one that made me begin to wonder about how angels are received in heaven, for you see, she suffers from a rare genetic disease known as Spinal Muscular Atrophy, or SMA for short, and who knows how long God has loaned us this heavenly creature, for we know that she is sorely missed in those high courts.
My niece Whitnee is a beautiful little girl, even though she will never walk, the crippling disease that ravages her body forbids such, but the jealous affliction cannot conquer that angelic spirit that is within her. I feel that her gaze sees far more angels than I can ever imagine, and I like to believe that she can see the inner angel that all of us tend to miss in ourselves. She sits in her wheelchair and babbles on in her happy made-up language and occasionally allows us a chance to be a part of it when she looks at you and smiles as she chatters and says your name and then continues talking to the invisible companionship around her. I prefer to think that she is conversing with her saintly entourage and so when she mentions your name, be forewarned for you are being spoken of to a heavenly host. The precious time that she is here is one of glowing moments and glimpses of what heaven must be like. I know that the reception she will receive is one far more radiant than the most decorated war hero, or celebrated superstar could ever hope for.
Then there is one of the greatest angels I have ever met, my mother. This being was a great source of heavenly inspiration that touched so many lives. I recall many late nights spent talking about hard classes, difficult assignments, failed attempts at love, and good books. Many a tear was wiped away by her loving hands, so many wounds, both physical as well as spiritual, were calmed and robbed of their painful swellings before they became infected. In 2004, she went in for a fateful operation that would steal away forever her the voice that I had known my whole life, and replaced it with a raspy wheezing caused by a horrid tube sticking out of her throat like some white-headed serpent that hissed and sputtered with each intake of breath.
The awful surgery revealed a hideous infiltrator within her body; cancer. The same cruel beast that took my uncle now was encroaching on my beloved mother and personal saint. This tore at everyone in the family. My mother was devastated at the loss of her voice and of the impending battle she was facing. She could no longer sing to her precious grandchildren, midnight conversations with her children now seemed to be an impossibility. Life as she, and we, knew it had changed entirely. But even the destructive force let loose in her body did not deter the sacred spirit that she carried within her. She could still speak, even if it cost her to do so, and she worked puzzles with her grandchildren instead of singing, she learned to communicate in other ways beside speaking, now her conversations with her family were more animated and her happy excitement and good disposition made her an inspiration to many. She was never one to mince words and always made the most out of every situation. I still remember the words she spoke to my sister right before entering under the surgeon’s knife, the simple phrase that only angels are comfortable using. The words “I love you.”
Those three words sum up the entirety of this angel’s life, even in the following years after that fateful operation when her disease proceeded to consume the flesh that held captive the mighty spirit within, she never allowed her enthusiasm for life to drop. The last hours of her journey as a stranger here on this earth found her in a hospital bed, wires and tubes snaking into her body, providing the necessary sustenance that it required to survive just a few more minutes or hours. Her family was gathered around her, we each approached and she hugged each of us individually, rasping out a strained expression of love before moving on to the next child. Finally she arrived at her beloved husband, giving him one final embrace, she kissed him and pushed the words she so desperately wanted to say out of her mouth. “I love you.” She could only mouth the words, but the feeling behind them was so great and without bounds. I watched this scene unfold, telling my mother that I loved her as well, along with the rest of my siblings.
After these last loving embraces everyone departed but two of my brothers and my grandmother, as well as myself. I sat by my failing mother’s side she looked at me and tried to say something, but her breath was too shallow. My brothers had left the room and so I walked out to bring them in. When I returned, I knelt by her side and took her hand. As I watched the monitors that were checking her vitals, they suddenly gave a sharp drop as the sweet spirit that had inhabited that tabernacle slowly slipped away. Lowering my head, I began to weep as another angel was summoned home at last. I knew that the celebrations had begun somewhere else, a big parade with balloons and fellow angels welcoming their sister and daughter back.

More Poetry!

A bit more poetry for ya'll... I thought I'd switch the moods and talk about something a bit more hopeful with this post, and instead focus a bit more on hopeful things. These are still some works in progress, but if you like them, then let me know!

Quiet Mercy
-Ben Stoddard

The wind speaks softly through the trees
A quiet prayer for me to hear
Beneath the emerald canopy of trees
The voice grows quiet as it draws near

It speaks to me of Love’s soft hand
That beckons from a distant land
It whispers silent assurances sweet
Given by one with pierced hands and feet

To feel the raw emotion of passion sinned
And the weight of worthiness thinned
The pain of discouragement and lost hope
When dreams and loves vanish in smoke

One is there who helps to raise up fallen arms
An eternal hope to sustain us through harsh storms
A beacon that guides us with light to come
Over rocks and stones, to bring us safely home.


My Dad
-Ben Stoddard

Glass that ripples and breathes
Sending shiny waves upon the rocky shore
Pebbles worn smooth by constant friction
Branches from nature’s bridges floating

A quiet island sits in the middle
A place for thought and work
Too many things to do, no time for fun
Worn hands and old backs have no excuse

Fierce storms have ravaged the surface
But rich soil still lies beneath
Sun kissed grass and sturdy growth
The island stands alone.

Blue Eyed Angel
-Ben Stoddard

This angel has a wheelchair instead of wings
Blue eyes and golden hair
Loving countenance and giggling voice
A smile that can melt even the hardest of hearts
And a capacity to suffer what others could not
She giggles and laughs and calls out your name
Then teasingly reverts to her own language again
She smiles and beams at you, radiant beams of light
A sure sign of pride, she has claimed you as her own
Till the day she leaves, she will love you still.

This is NOT a cry for help!

I tried to get this done before June was out, but I just barely missed it, sorry everyone! I hope this one is good enough to sate you over until the next one comes out (I promise it will be sooner, school is almost out and I'm going to do better at writing for this, I promise!)

Okay, I'm a bit hesitant to post this one because I know I'm going to get some emails or calls asking me if I'm okay or telling me not to do anything rash. I promise you that I have no intention of doing anything drastic and am actually quite happy with life at the present moment. What inspired this story is this girl that I met the other day, we began talking and found out that we both enjoy writing, so we decided to write about a topic. Well we had been discussing the idea of what would you do if you knew that this was your last day to live, and we decided to write something on that topic, this is what I wrote. I call it, "The Agreement"

The Agreement…

A man is only as good as his word, as the saying goes. The setting sun of in the distance holds an ominous glow as it spread its golden arms across the deepening landscape. The mountains, the great and mighty Tetons, stand as silent testaments to these final minutes of the dying light. This had been a special day for me, and I want to savor these last few minutes, made all the sweeter by the agreement that I had made.

It was a heavy decision that I had been required to make, but I didn’t regret it, and even now I wouldn’t have changed my final choice. It’s strange how such heavy changes in our lives can put things into such perspective, and in reality it almost seems as though our decisions are made before the crucial moments actually come, and our characters are the real things that are shown to be the result of our choices when the moment of truth comes. Cliché? Most definitely, but as with most clichés this one has been around for such a long time because it makes a valid point. My decision was a private one, and I hope that my character passed the test, if not then it doesn’t matter.

My day had started early, which is strange for me as I’m usually a late riser. The morning light, a strange reversal of the beautiful sunset that now lies before me, crept in through my window like soft fingers gently willing me to wake up. I crept out of bed in order to enjoy the quiet stillness that accompanies the sun’s quiet awakening. I boiled some water for some hot cider and took my cup outside to listen to the sounds of a waking world. The steam from my cup curled lazily above the rim before dissipating in a series of intricate swirls and twists, catching the sleepy orange light of the morning in the steam before curling away into the brisk air of the young day.

Everything seemed so much more vivid in comparison to my previous mornings of rushed exits in order to make it to class or work on time. Today, there would be no rushing; I wanted to savor these moments like some superb dish that is rapidly diminishing. Colors were more vibrant in this light. In my head a silent melody seemed to accompany the quiet stillness of the early hour. Strangely enough, I was forced into a quiet awe as to the overwhelming calm I felt at my decision. Another strange phenomenon of this thing we call life: once a decision is made and committed to, the worry and stress that plagues the process of making a choice dissipate like the steam from my cider, as though the pressure of responsibility has been removed.

In life, often times what we see as the end is only a link into another beginning. Another cliché, but also a true one. This morning signaled the end of another night, a time of quiet contemplation and wearied worrying, and also the beginning of another day. When our perspectives expand someday, perhaps we will see that the concept of beginning and end are one of the many fallacies that our human minds have conjured up, along with our warped perceptions of what is fair. This day was an embodiment of that statement, with the morning being a final testament to confirm that truth to me.

I visited a cemetery, a rather morbid choice for such a day, but I considered it an investment in the future. I went to visit someone very dear to me, or at least the last physical representation of her that was left to me. This is not one of those dismal graveyards that are so eerily described in horror books. This was a resting place of many good people, and in a morose way of thinking I would almost label it as a happy cemetery. This was a testament to lives well led, and loved ones left behind to finish their own journeys. I stopped at the address that I already knew by heart, the residence was marked with a large pine tree hanging over it to give shade in the hot summer and shelter in the cold winter. The place was on the downward slope of the hill and held a good vantage point over the surrounding farmland. On several sides one could see small little farmsteads with happy lawns and if one arrived at the right time, the sounds of children playing can be heard drifting over from the small red brick schoolyard less than a block away.

In reality, cemeteries are meant for the living. We use them as reminders, bookmarks in the book of life’s story where the narration trades hands from one author to the next. The dead have far more important things to do than lie around, but it gives us a strange sense of peace to be able to give them a place that, should they want, they could come and rest in peace. I looked at the name on the headstone as I drew close to it. I called out the dear person’s name, or at least the name I know her as, in order to get her attention and have her come to the window so I can talk to her. “Mom,” I cried.

Of course she doesn’t answer, she’s not at this address anymore. We all know the forwarding address where she can be reached, but the phone systems are a bit tricky there so we just make token visits to the last place we left her, hoping that she’ll check her messages there sometime and know that we are thinking of her. I carried on a one sided conversation with the tombstone, smiling the whole time at the irony of the situation. I explained about the agreement that I had made and why I had made it. It felt good to be able to tell somebody about it.

In all honesty, the circumstances of the agreement are very personal, I hadn’t wished for this situation and honestly would have avoided it had there been any other way. However, in retrospect, I can think of far worse reasons for making the choice that I did, although, I would have preferred to have avoided the result for a bit longer. Such is life, I suppose, it’s more about making do with what time we’re given, and not trying to exceed what we shouldn’t. Time is a tricky substance to understand, which is why I’m glad that its only application is for mortals, it’s like a cup of tea: the first taste can be powerful and intriguing, but as we drink we become accustomed to the taste and lose interest. Yet when we reach the dregs of our cups, the power of the flavor is intensified and we experience a type of euphoria at the renewal of the taste, and perhaps that’s what makes time so vital to the wonderful plan of this life.

After the cemetery, I spent the day visiting friends and family. Of course none of them knew about the agreement because I didn’t want them to act differently around me, and waste the moments of happiness that were left to us. This act might seem selfish of me, and it probably is; yet still I wouldn’t have changed my decision. I watched a movie with one of my brothers and his family. A wasted choice, one might say, but I wasn’t watching the movie for entertainment, I was watching it for the sake of company. It felt good to be in comfortable surroundings with people who loved me. I hung out with my friends and did the things that we love to do, laughing at stories that we shared and drinking cold drinks that accompanied the sweet taste of barbeque as we enjoyed the warm afternoon. All of these things may seem trivial, but they have meaning to me, and that is what is important on this day.

The sun is just about gone, dipping close to the ends of the horizon. I look around me at the calm and peaceful surroundings. The smell of moist earth from the fields beside the house, the metallic rhythm from the watering spigots off in those same fields as they fed the thirsty soil, this sound is accompanied by the subdued chirruping of several crickets in their hidden concert halls. I sigh as I look back on my life, the friends and family, the memories, and the achievements that had been given to me. The only regret I carry with me at this point is not having anyone singular to share my experiences thus far with, and again I sigh as I sadly realize the implications the agreement will have on that regret.

The sun finally bids its final farewell in a last flash of color and is gone. Then he is standing next to me, wearing a black, long sleeved shirt and comfortable jeans. He has slightly longer hair that goes below his jaw line and brushes his shoulders and a well-trimmed goatee. He smiles and asks if I’m ready. I return the smile and nod. He laughs and slaps me on the shoulder, his touch isn’t as cold as most people think, it’s actually quite warm. Of all the characters in all of history, this one is the most poorly portrayed in my eyes. He tells me how much work it was to file the papers necessary to have someone switch places. He also informs me how rare it is to have such a submission accepted. There are millions of submissions every day, but all of them are usually denied. I continue smiling as I listen to him and we start walking off in the direction the sun took when it went to bed…

Quick bit of poetry....

Seeing as how it's been awhile, I figure that I would update my blog, at least with a little something.... so I wrote a small poem that I would like to share with you all who are still checking on this, interpret it how you will....

All the people in all the world
have dancing partners dear
but as for me,
unfortunately
I dance
alone

So there you have it, a quick little note, I know it's not much, but I promise that I will get something new up here in the near future. Feel free to comment on anything you like or that you don't like!

The D-word

Okay this note goes out to everyone. Consider it a memo for an upcoming meeting or something. I welcome all of your thoughts and concerns on this matter. This is an attempt to bridge that horrible chasm that is a mass of confusion and utter terror to most men; the female mind! The longer I live here the more I understand that girls are some of the happiest misery you will ever suffer during your sojourn here on earth. I mean this in a loving way and this note is not to be slanderous in any respect. I fully respect the female society, and mean no disrespect at all to anyone with my remarks. If I make a comment that offends you in some way, let me know and I'll rectify it with you. That being said, this is meant to be a humorous debate with anyone that is willing to venture into the realm of my scathing wit and bitterness on this subject.

I am one of the many men that at some time or other has sworn off dating. Most of the times the members of this club make that vow several times. Of course we always rescind our declaration upon crossing paths with the next set of batting eyelashes that catches our eye. However, like any other long time member of this club might tell you, we're still trying to figure this whole game out. We don't get the whole stop-n-go kind of theory that seems to accompany that all elusive status of "relationship". We struggle to see what there is that attracts you females to give in to some guys. It feels like we're playing a game of Clue, and we're trying desperately to find out what the missing piece of the puzzle is. Yet when we declare that it was Col. Mustard in the Library with the candlestick, if we're wrong all we get for a response is "no". That's it! No new clues are given to us to help us figure this out! Do you have any idea how maddening this is!? There's no reasoning at all! We're left shooting in the dark at targets of variable sizes and we're not even sure we're getting close to the mark.

Girls, let me give you a hint. We guys are not nearly so smart as you may think, you feel like that if you like one of us then we should be man enough to figure it out! Girls drop all of these elaborate hints that when added up form one decent sized hint, but it's like looking for change in your Uncle's couch! You find all sorts of stuff besides coins; lint, old plastic utensils, TV remotes, TV guides, and other odd assortments of strange articles some of them too horrific to mention. But we guys aren't that smart in that area, so we'll sit and stew over a piece of newspaper trimmings and wonder if it's really a quarter in disguise. This sounds ridiculous, but what seems rather obvious to you girls is really something that we often times wouldn't even consider as a hint.

Here it is simply put for you: If a guy likes you, and really likes you, he'll want to spend time with you and he'll seek you out to do it. Please don't discourage us in this regards. Nothing is more frustrating than when we finally work up the gumption to ask you to do something and have you give us one of those ambiguous responses that lead us to wonder if you were just trying to let us down easy, or if you really did want to do something with us. If you do want us to keep trying give us something to work with! Laugh on the phone when we call, we're just as terrified of you as you are of us! Probably more so! Give us encouragement, and don't feel that it is too forward to give us a call if you kinda like us, too! The rules of engagement in this parley have changed considerably in the last few decades, it's okay to let us know if you like us! Heck it makes it a lot easier for us to know if we should make a move or not!

Guys need neon signs pointing them in the right direction, bright ones with blinking lights and pretty colors. What we don't even notice is some obscure smoke signal off in the distance. We also need those signs to let us know when we're doing good. It's hard to know when we're just getting to know you if we do something that you like. Let us know! Communication is key in this world, and it starts in the courtship! Men, as you should know are the last ones to be possessed with the ability to read minds! We're pretty dense sometimes, I don't know how to say it any clearer. We need your help to know when we're on the right track. I know some girls have this idea of a guy that can tell by the light of your smile what he's supposed to do next, and even if you don't have him in your head then we guys think that you do and he intimidates us as much as anything!

As much as we want to be your knights in shining armor, we're just as scared that we're going to mess up when we talk to you as you are when we talk to you. We have this image of the ultimate man already dreamed up that is some Brad Pitt kind of character that is charming and witty and smells good. We feel a lot of time that we don't measure up to that.

Of course, I make it sound like guys are these analyzing machines and we think a lot into what we're going to do. Here's a tip: we don't think these things through nearly that much. The guy's thought process goes something like this: That girl's kinda cute! She's really nice, kinda quiet. Maybe I'll ask her on a date? Yeah, sure! To be honest it comes down to this, when a guy asks you out he's saying "I like you thus far, I kinda want to see where this can go." There is never any guy that doesn't ask a girl out that he doesn't have it in mind that he wants to see where things can go, especially up here at BYU-Idaho.

Now, that doesn't mean we plan on asking anyone to marry us if they say yes to a second date, but you know what? With all the drilling we get on getting married up here, and with all of our friends and family being or getting married around us, we see that happiness and of course we want to jump on the bandwagon. But that doesn't mean that we're all fanatics about it. Or that we aren't going to think out such an astronomical leap without much fasting, prayer, temple going, and several months of dating before we even begin to seriously consider asking you that all important question?

All things considered, dating is a sticky situation and can be seen as some sweet poison, a rose with thorns gilded in nightshade if you will. Everyone has a different experience with it. I wouldn't trade my experiences for anything, but I won't say that I wouldn't like different experiences and new perspectives on this area. Girls, please help us to bridge this gap. We enjoy the wonderful things that you have to offer, but our callous hands sometimes do not handle gently that which we aught to. If that has happened, give us another chance, remember that we also have fragile parts of us that your indifference can damage just as surely.

We are looking for something special, and while friendship in itself is wonderful, and a good building block to move forward with, we are looking for something more meaningful. All of us, whether man or woman are looking for that, for though friends are essential to this life, they are actors in a play that is constantly changing its role call. Exits and entrances are frequent, and even with good friends there comes a time when we want something more long lasting and stable in our lives. We aren't fanatics for wanting this, nor are we blind zombies that are bent only on marriage, don't misunderstand me. We want only the happiness that comes from having someone special in our life. The exhilaration of receiving that special place in someone's life is something that all of humanity seeks after in one form or another, the love of another is a precious thing and we all have need of it. So don't misinterpret our intentions.

Death, Thou Shalt Die

Death is a companion that seems to want to accompany us all throughout life; some of us just have closer experiences with it than others. I myself am becoming quite familiar with him. He can be a cold creature at times, and at other times a sweet release to those who suffer. I have been a witness to both types, and also many other varying degrees in between. He’s very misunderstood, I think. He comes with his raven wings and glides away just as quietly. I’ve seen him several times, and the more exposure that I’ve had with him, the less frightening he is. He comes for his clients with a cool professionalism that is undeniable, and sweeps them away, leaving only husks in their place. But where he takes them depends on how much currency they have, and he only deals in virtuous and worthy lives.
I remember the first time that I really began to know Death was while serving as a missionary in the Mexico City South Mission. It was a dark day, even though the sun was shining brightly. A recent convert to the Church, who I will call Marcos, had found his son’s dead body hanging from the support beam in his own room. We had been at Marcos’s house all the previous day offering consolation and advising those bereaved by grief. It was exactly two years ago from tonight on April 1, 2007 that it happened. I wrote home the following words in reference to this horrible event:
“On Sunday, we went to the burial, this was one of the most horrible experiences I have ever had in my mission. I have never seen so much absolute wailing and gnashing of teeth as the scriptures describe it. There were so many people screaming and pulling at their hair, and fainting and so many things, it was an unorganized array. The burial team was callous and un-professional in the way they handled the actual burying, carelessly dropping the casket into a crudely cut out hole in the ground and then brutally threw shovel-fulls of dirt onto the remains of what was my friend's son. It was too much for him, he made as if to go over to the graveside, and some of his family grabbed him, restraining him. One of the old ladies, probably an aunt, began telling him ''Tell God to give you back your son! It's because you changed religions, God is punishing you for that! Tell Him you want your son back! It doesn't matter if God takes you, but tell him how you feel!'' The father threw them off of him and said as he ran to the side of where they were burying his son
“Don't even talk to me!'' When he got to the grave, it was an emotional burden too strong for him, and he turned to the nearest person, which as God would have it, was the bishop. He turned and began weeping on his shoulder as the clods of dirt accompanied the tortured cries of the mother and her family.
This was a very difficult thing to see, we sang a few hymns to try and make it somewhat easier, the contention of the family against us was enough to destroy any chance of the spirit taking part in this cold ceremony. This was a cold reminder of what this life is, this wasn't like any other funeral I had ever been too, where the tears shed were done so in celebration of a life well-lived, and at times, a life that had been cut short by an accident, but all had been with the sweet reassurances of the gospel, the resurrection, and the promises of covenants made in the holy temples of the Lord. These people screamed their hopeless protests against a seemingly invincible foe: Death. They knew nothing, or very little, of the hope that comes through our Savior, in these moments. Christ was a forgotten figure, something more resembling Santa Claus, not someone that could actually have the power to take away the pains of losing a loved one.
In the faith of our Lord, the sting of death is taken away, we know that it is only a temporary phase that must happen as surely as birth is a part of this plan that we all are part of. Needless to say, I am so very grateful for the Plan of Salvation that we have, that takes away the needless fear of what lies beyond this life. I hope we all realize what a priceless jewel we have in our lives to have such a knowledge.
This funeral was a blunt reminder of what we all must pass through, the great and small, rich and poor, learned and un, all must die, and many times the only ones to share our grief in this world are a few family members, and they are suffering the same and are not too great a comfort. With the Lord in our lives, we have a great comfort, that some day we will rise. Death will have no power over us, and we will be free forever. I am grateful for the opportunity I had to be able to offer some small measure of comfort to this brother by sharing somewhat with him the Plan of Salvation. I am grateful for worthy priesthood bearers such as the bishop of this ward, who were there when this brother needed him most. Mostly, I am grateful for the Comforter, which comes from our Heavenly Father that is able to help us in these difficult times. The brother is still struggling with the loss of his son, but his ward is uniting to help him, and I am sure that the Lord will not leave him alone. I feel a calm sense of assurance in saying that with time, he will be fine, through the cleansing power of the Atonement, he still has some time left in this ''Friday'' of his life, as Elder Wirthlin said in the October conference, but Sunday is well on its' way.”
John Donne, in a later portion of his life, penned the poem “Death Be Not Proud”. Its words are a stirring reminder for us to be grateful for the wonderful blessings that we possess in this Gospel, the answers to the knowledge that death is not the end. He writes: “Death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so, for, those whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow, die not, poor Death…” Remember that this life is not the end, and we do not have all the answers in this life as to the outcome of every single individual, we do know this: “One short sleep past, we wake eternally, and death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.” So it shall be, and we will be forever left to consider the outcomes of our decisions, whether for our eternal happiness or not is the decision that we face today. Let all our choices be those that direct us to the hope of an eternity with those we love, and let us not pawn off the difficulties of today for a moment’s sinful respite. Let us continue moving forward towards the victory. That we might be able to truly rest and be able to come forth in that great day, when all is finished and death, that sad creature, takes its final victim: itself.

By Popular Demand

Here it is by popular demand, I figured I might as well put it down in writing for the masses:

The Kilt:

I have always been a bit of a strange person, as my brothers will be quick to attest to. I’ve always been different even from my family, which is a strange one in its own league, but it’s the good kind of strange, that inexplicable feeling of being different that everyone seems to be trying to get a piece of and uses all sorts of counterfeit methods to try and imitate it.

As it was, when I was in the early portion of my high school years, I was involved in a bit of medieval reenactment and was still in the process of choosing my persona that I wanted to be. I thought about what I enjoyed about medieval history and thought about where my family had come from. I thought to the origins of my mom’s maiden name of McBride and just like that it was decided: I was a Scotsman! So I rummaged around in our prop closet from the accumulated costumes from various and sundry plays and musicals that Mom had been a part of. Due to her extensive participation in such activities, I had quite a selection to sort through. Finally I emerged triumphant with a baggy white shirt, a fur mantle, and a blue kilt made out of polyester. Now the materials that composed the kilt are important to note, and I’ll explain why a little later on…

So thus it was, my friend Ben Seare and I set out to explore his grandfather’s field. It was a nice little patch of land with some peaceful trees that had a tendency to hide away the rest of the world and gave the approved effect of transporting us back into a quasi-medieval setting, so we set up camp and began our romp through the dark ages. Things went great for the first couple of days, lots of sword fighting and apple-beer drinking and other such manly medieval activities, although I can’t imagine how girls wear skirts, that kilt was terribly drafty and uncomfortable, not to mention awkward to sit around a campfire in. No wonder you have to cross your legs the way you do… but I digress.

It was on the third day that we ventured back into town to restock our rapidly diminishing supply of cheese, potato rolls, and apple-beer. Upon arriving at the grocery store, we made our purchases (still dressed in our garb, of course) and as we left the market I asked Ben if we really wanted to go back out to the campsite or if we would rather just head back to his grandparent’s house and be able to sleep in beds rather than on the rocky ground for the last night of our trip. He agreed that it would be better to just call off the last night of camping and go home, but we had left his dog Jerry up at the site so we had to return to get that blasted dog. Once there we just decided that it wasn’t worth it to pack up that night and since we had already purchased supplies for the last night, we might as well tough it out, so Ben built a fire and I got dinner ready.

After the fire was going, Ben went off to gather a bit more wood while I stood by the fire and just contemplated with all the depth a teenage boy can muster… which is about the depth of a puddle, but I fancied myself different. As I sat there looking into the fire, a strong gust of wind came up and blew the smoke into my face. I coughed and sputtered and looked away as my eyes began to water. I looked back at the fire and wiped my eyes a bit from the wood smoke and as I did so I saw a little tongue of flame caught my attention from the bottom of my vision, one that was entirely too close to be a part of the fire… I looked down and gave a yelp of surprise. This is where it is important to note the main difference between my kilt, and that of an authentic Scotsman’s kilt, an authentic kilt would have been constructed from wool, not polyester. The former material, though less comfortable, would be far more durable, warmer, and most importantly in this circumstance: fire resistant. As I looked down at the base of my kilt, a knot of flames leapt up to greet me. I instantly jumped back away from the fire and started running around yelling. Ben walked over rather confused at my actions, until he saw my flaming kilt and then he too joined in the yelling. I looked at him with panic in my eyes.

“What do I do!?” I yelled.

“Stop, drop, and roll!” Came the response. So I obediently dropped to the ground and subsequently my yells grew louder as I tried to smother the fire with my legs, with very little effect. I jumped back up and looked at my friend, who was assuredly terrified thinking that he was going to watch his buddy burn to a cinder in front of him. Not willing to give up just yet, I reached down to my belt buckle to undo the kilt and take it off of me. Unfortunately, the fire had heated the buckle and so it, too was impossible to touch, but this didn’t stop me until after sever unsuccessful attempts and even more curses and burnt fingers. Finally in a last moment of despair, I reached down and grabbed the almost completely melted and burned remnants of my kilt and wrenched it off of me belt and all. Ben grabbed it from me and took off running into the wilderness to smother the fire, screaming all the way there.

So there I stood, I had been wearing a pair of cheap nylon gym shorts underneath my kilt to help with the awkward sitting positions. Those shorts had melted into my skin and were hanging at strange angles, the crisped and melted edges giving off a faint smell of burning ozone. Ben came running back after extinguishing the fire and declared that we were leaving. I grunted my agreement; we got the dog and jumped in the car, as blisters were already starting to form on my leg.

Once back at his grandparent’s house, his grandma took one smell of us and ordered us to different bathrooms to shower due to our acrid smoke odor that accompanied us. I got the master bath, complete with a small, standing shower that was roughly the size of a coffin. I pulled as much of the melted plastic shorts out of my skin as I could without passing out and dragged myself into the shower. I turned on the lukewarm water and watched as it began to spray out, at which time pain exploded throughout my body as the tepid water made contact with the various burns all over my body. Screaming I pounded against the walls, lost in a sense of vertigo from the pain, until finally I managed to stagger out of the shower itself. After regaining a bit of my senses I heard a faint knocking at the door as Ben’s scared voice came from the other side:

“Dude, are you okay?” He asked. I managed to mutter something that was evidently satisfactory and he walked off again. After regaining some of my composure I somehow managed to struggle through a cold shower and emerged some time later. By this time a huge blister about the size of a small ping-pong ball had formed on my left inner thigh and so I was firmly against wearing pants, and therefore spent the remainder of the weekend waddling around my friend’s grandparent’s house in my boxers due to the pain.

It turns out that the large blister was a sign of a second-degree burn and that I had also received a third-degree on my right upper-thigh that was from where the nylon had fused with my skin. My friend’s grandparents decided to call my parents to have them come and get me. As I sat there miserably staring at a TV I heard my mom snickering as she came down the stairs to get me. As she spotted me, her snickers turned into a full out laugh and between bursts of mirth she managed to gasp out:

“You burnt your skirt!” Such was the tender love of a concerned parent. To this day, my family holds this story in the Stoddard hall of infamy. I think it may sadly be part of the legacy that I hand down to my posterity…..

Family History...

It seems as though the mere mention of the words "Family History" is enough to send most people packing. But I have a firm testimony of the importance of preserving a record for our future generations. This blog is almost going to be a journal about myself and my family, both present and future. So with all the stories that we have, this is going to be a very entertaining blog. So get ready, here come the Stoddards!